.
.
What do
we see when we look at each other?
Or, what
are we seeking to find to see?
Don’t you
look for yourself when you look
in my
eyes? Don’t I look into your eyes for me?
.
Today on
a street on the upper west side
I espied
a distraught and leashed yipping
chihuahua deriding
a large German Shepherd
who with
a disinterested languor passed by
.
on his
own leash held comfortably by his
middle-aged
steward, a small bald mustached
portly man
dressed in tweed. The chihuahua’s
companion,
a tall lean young woman in t-shirt
.
and jeans
who’d allowed her chihuahua to rush
to the
Shepherd to get it to stop and take heed,
now looked
up from the dogs to the man
who
glanced back at her, after which she and he
.
fled in
their separate directions as fast as they
could
from the scene. What had they seen in each
other
that made them vamoose at such speed?
Did they
not find themselves in each other’s
.
inspection?
Is that why they both had to leave?
Is
finding myself in your eyes the sole proof
that I’m
here I’ll believe? Is Narcissus the symbol
for this predilection
to meet this tyrannical need?
.
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